


Change it Up

by stephanericher



Category: A League of Their Own (1992)
Genre: Gen, Post-Trade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-20 03:26:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17614535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: She’s never pitched to a different catcher before.





	Change it Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snowshus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowshus/gifts).



> Hope you enjoy (and forgive the title pun)! I wanted to get into Kit's head right after the trade and imagine how she might compare her old and new teams.

The day of Kit’s first start, she still hasn’t said more than a few words to any of the girls. They know each other; they’re a tight machine, the way Kit and her family is back on the farm. The way the Peaches were—except for her, Dottie’s sister, the tagalong kid, the—whatever it was. She’s far enough away from Rockford, and Dottie, and the team, to admit that maybe she was part of the problem, but it wasn’t all her. Whatever it was, is, that made her stick out in the wrong way, is different than the way she is here. She doesn’t stick out so much as she’s not in the picture entirely, like the time when she was a kid and her parents went to take a family portrait and the photographer had to keep pushing her closer into the frame.

She’s gotten a few at-bats, pinch hits, one for two with a double and a walk. She’s no star, but when she falls asleep alone in the back of the bus, her head on the window and knees digging into the seat in front of her, she’s not thinking so much about how everyone would be hanging on Dottie’s word and she’d have ten RBI. She’s not thinking as much about Dottie at all; she thinks about not thinking about her more.

But she thinks about baseball more than anything else. She’s alone in the dugout, third inning, end of the bench, ball in her hand. She doesn’t look, just feels the stitches under her fingers as she moves grip to grip, pitch to pitch, faster. She’s picked up the signs by watching; hat’s the indicator and across the chest is take, and steal is a swipe down the forearm. Kit wouldn’t steal right now, but she hasn’t seen the runner try yet. She’s not fast but she’s aggressive enough, jumping off to a lead as soon as the opposing pitcher goes into a windup. And their catcher’s arm’s not great, and in hindsight the steal is obvious, but—God, Kit wishes it were her turn already. Her turn to get three at bats, notches carved into the opposing pitcher, rather than waiting all game for a fleeting opportunity. Her chance to get used to the weight of the wood in her hands, hovering off her shoulder. Her hand slapping the base and holding on.

She’s never pitched to a different catcher before. She can’t even remember this girl’s name, and it’s all she can do to throw the warmup pitches. Dottie’s always acted like she knows best, thrown down a sign that she won’t let Kit shake off—and Kit shakes her off out of habit half the time when she agrees, anyway. This catcher listens, resets, and Kit ends up throwing a pitch she doesn’t want to, that’s out of sequence. And the throws come back fine, but they’re not as hard as Dottie’s. Kit catches one on her palm, accidentally, and it doesn’t even hurt.

Her stuff’s good today, but not as good as usual. She knows she’s being too cautious, but this still feels a little weird. It can’t be as bad as the feeling that Dottie’s about to get her pulled just because she can. It’s not. Kit toes the rubber and stares down. The sign comes in for a fastball, and Kit’s about to say no—she stops herself. She nods and sets.

The pitch sails outside, and the batter watches it, almost placid. Kit frowns and waits for the return throw; it plops back into her glove and she resets. Another fastball. And another, and another, and the batter’s off to first. Kit stares in, daring the catcher to stand up and walk out, come and talk to her, look back into the dugout because she’s in some kind of cahoots with the manager. She signs for another fastball, and Kit shakes her head. She’s going with the change.

The first pitch is a little low, but the batter swings anyway, a soft grounder back to the shortstop for a routine double play. She’s good. It’s good.

Kit lets the catcher choose the next pitch, and strikes the batter out in four. When she jogs back into the dugout, her manager gives her a nod. It’s not measured or grudging; he’s not saving all the credit for her catcher, just what’s owed to her.

“Good call on that last one,” says Kit.

Her catcher pauses, mask halfway up her face. She smiles, sweat streaking down her cheeks, and Kit resolves to remember her name.

* * *

There are no qualifiers in this game, no qualifiers in anyone’s speech. No glory to the chosen one on the Belles, no chosen one at all. They’re a team; they win as a team; they all let each other know about a good pitch or slide or hit. Kit’s complete game is admired; no one says anything about wishing they’d pulled her during her shaky sixth.

No one says she’s better than they thought she’d be.

On the bus that night, the catcher pulls her down next to her and they talk about the two runners she’d caught stealing, laugh about the signs they’d flubbed, with some good-natured ribbing from the right fielder in the seat behind them. The smile’s not awkwardly frozen on Kit’s face, and having to pretend to like the girls and politely listen isn’t as hard, because she’s not pretending. This isn’t the old Peaches bus, with the same pictures on the window, and the same snores and whispers she’s used to hearing. But it’s nice to have a change of pace.

Not that she’s going to tell Dottie that getting rid of her was a good thing. That can wait until after the Belles have demolished the Peaches in the World Series. And Kit wins MVP after throwing a perfect game and hitting a home run on a fastball, high and tight—hey, it could happen.

“Someone gimme a sweater?” she calls.

Two hands reach out; Kit takes them both, for a makeshift pillow twice as soft.

“Thanks.”


End file.
